Breach
by HexKey
Summary: Pressure: part 3 In dream-like surroundings, Loki returns to reassert his ownership of Clint, inside and out. And Clint is into it this time. Later, he wakes up in the hospital, with a bruised and swollen stomach and a worried, slightly-guilty Natasha watching over him. Nat/Clint & Clint/Loki. Belly Kink. Stomach punching/pressing... and more weird stuff.
1. Chapter 1

Edited 6/27 (minor changes)

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The grand chamber was strange and unfamiliar as Clint Barton blinked around, disoriented. But he was not shocked to see the tall Asgardian standing in the room with him, dark hair falling loose, framing a knowing grin. Clint did start at the sight of the scepter in Loki's hand, even as the unsubstantial nature of the room proclaimed it a dream. A distant recollection: _Loki is dead... right?_

Real or imagined, he advanced, still smiling. As the tip of the blade touched his navel through his shirt, Clint's nostrils flared and his lips compressed. He did not want to go back under the scepter's thrall, but he suddenly and desperately wanted Loki to touch him, to claim his belly and his breath.

 _That wasn't right._

After this flash of unease, doubts evaporated as the scepter prodded him and the surroundings solidified. In a kind of languid haze, Clint found himself stumbling backwards, encountering a couch of sorts and he fell, arched back like an offering on an altar. His feet didn't even touch the floor and a leaden paralysis settled over him.

Belly-up over the plush armrest, he knew he should be able to resist, but his limbs felt heavy while his torso felt charged, electric with dread and arousal. Clint's stomach felt as weak as the rest of him and he knew that Loki would focus there. He barely flinched when the blade split his shirt and belt.

Cool fingers lightly explored his throat, abdomen and genitals; brushing over these sensitive, exposed places. Each caress threatened and promised to become torment as Loki steadily increased the pressure.

"What...unhg... are you going...mmm… to do." Clint gasped, anticipating pain to replace the tantalizing touches.

Feeling the hard nub of his navel shift against a shallow thrust, Loki brought Clint's mouth to his and kissed him roughly, rolling the knot against the smooth muscle. "Exactly what you want me to do," Loki promised. "Exactly what you have been longing for."

Lightening fast, he clutched the archer's throat in one hand and plunged into his abdomen with the other. The clawed hand on his trachea a silent reminder that the god expected absolute obedience and a soft, unresisting stomach. An indecent groan of pleasure sighed through Clint's parted lips as he yielded to this masterful invasion.

With both hands, he pressed down, flattening Clint's middle, grinding his guts against his back bone. Clint knew that the Asgardian could, with very little effort, kill him with his bare hands; the god could crush him as easily as satisfy him.

"No pretenses, Agent Barton. I know your deepest secrets. I buried some there myself." Loki had complete access to his body in this stretched out and vulnerable position. He pushed hard against Clint's abdomen as if he desired to delve in and pry those very secrets out and expose them to the light of day.

"You have all been searching for this,'" he intoned, indicating the golden spear. "Do you want to experience it again?"

"Not the pointy end," Clint answered honestly.

The god smirked and swung the scepter so the tapered base ground into Clint's navel. His strength relented as the cool metal drew warmth from his insides and pressed down until it couldn't sink any deeper.

Clint stopped resisting the burning agony; his world narrowed until all perception became the unending pressure in his belly. In dizzy confusion, the pain crested and became indistinguishable from pleasure as the scepter bore down. Loki waited, measuring the heart beats pulsing against the shaft. After a few shuddering inhalations, Clint submitted and the metal rod bore to his spine.

Aroused and panting, perspiration slicking his brow, daunted and shamed under the intense scrutiny of that glittering green gaze, Clint shut out sight. Face hot and streaked, red from his inverted position, he pressed his teeth together and refused to beg...for he feared what he would beg the god to do to him.

Loki lay the heavy object aside. The scepter was terrifying and weighty, but it was no substitute for hands. He probed and explored Clint's stomach, minutely and slowly, contemplating the tension of the muscle, the depth of the incursion, the shifting of the viscera, the satisfying submission of the flesh and the soft grunts and moans.

As Clint's sighs became more contented, his brows knitted in appreciation and he shifted his hips to find some relief as his cock responded to the stimulation of the nerves at his core.

Loki blazed with anger. No longer focused on the powerful god lavishing him with this dark gift, this human was accepting his favors as if he were _worthy_ of them.

Piqued, Loki struck. The punch shook the air, a sharp blow precisely calculated to paralyze the diaphragm and empty the lungs. Loki pinned him in place as he spasmed with recoil, eyes wide. The powerful muscles in his back and arms tensing against the lassitude that bound him. His core tightened protectively and his erection receded.

Reasserting dominance, Loki assaulted his defenses and demanded his attention. Under that ferocious strength, Clint yielded as the barrage slowed, unable to repel the jackhammering thrusts and absorbing each impact.

The last one fell like the replay of a death blow in a videogame in Clint's wavering perception; deliberate and inexorable, a bullseye in the center of his body that penetrated without resistance.

Wrist-deep in his belly, Loki slid the scepter behind Clint's shoulders and lifted him up off the cushions. He kissed the pliant, wary archer, caressing his lips and tracing his teeth, and inhaling his shallow, panting breaths. He resumed exploring his abdomen with long, steady presses of his clenched fists. Dazed and drained, in thrall to that insistent, coaxing mouth, Clint's arousal began to build again as the edged pain in his beaten belly dulled to a blunted ache.

Clint made a muffled, hungry moan, and Loki shifted, trapping their hardening cocks between their bodies and rocking his hips. The pressure made Clint keenly aware of his own erection, aching and straining as Loki thrummed against the nerves rooted deep in his abused gut. Each action transmitted electric jolts of pain and warm dollops of pleasure, pumping Loki's rage, ambition and despair directly into Clint's nervous system where it swirled fitfully between his mind and his cock, pooling in his belly, ready to explode.

From the empty air, Loki plucked a white ball of glowing energy. "Within this shell is a fragment of a Norn stone.I have been meditating on a lost use of this ancient power. I think it's time to test it..." He released the ball of light and it hung in the air, until, at an imperious gesture from the fallen god, it spiraled towards the prone body on the couch, coming to rest on his stomach. "You shall soon see what I have created."

Loki's fingers dug into his hips as he arranged his prone victim, his navel pulled to a narrow slash. He lay heavily against him, his body conforming to the curvature imposed by the couch with the ball of light between them and continued kissing him, massaging his arms and shoulders. Loki let his own stomach slacken and accepted the press of the hard orb as he felt his archer's body tense beneath him.

Breaking the kiss, Loki stared hard into Clint's eyes, inflamed by the roiling conflict, knowing how little strength remained in his core. Once he held the archer's unwavering gaze, he flexed his powerful abs and pushed the orb into Clint's stomach, crushing the brittle coating around the ancient rune. As easily as a pebble sinking in honey, the dust of the Norn stone worked its spell. Loki stood, watching as the stone breached the glistening skin.

The transformation took only a second; one moment, Clint's abs were a sheet of solid muscle interrupted only by his navel, heaving with sensation. Next, a slit replaced the thumbprint indentation and yawed wider when Clint screamed as the magic bloodlessly parted the flesh, burrowing cleanly into his body.

Two long fingers circled, pressing hard under his solar plexus, a few inches from the entrance. He relished each stuttering curse he squeezed from the frightened archer as he slid those invading digits into that trembling orifice. A warm pleasure replaced the pain that split him open but Clint's low moan was cut short at the sight of Loki's exposed erection as he made ready for the culmination of this encounter.

With horrified fascination, Clint thrilled as the god sank inch by inch into his abdomen, his reason at war with his neurology as his whole body responded to this invasion. A sensation of unbearable pressure and soaring exhilaration radiated from this central point. This floating pleasure ended the second Loki was fully seated inside his body and Clint realized he couldn't breathe with the long cock forced deep inside his belly.

Loki groaned as the panic set in and Clint's lungs began to fight for oxygen, retching from this preternatural trauma. He rolled his hips as the archer's strong spasms quaked around his throbbing member. The heat of Clint's coiled, tortured insides spread through the former frost giant like a heady alcohol. He ground into his reclaimed thrall, still staring into the depths of his blue irises and reading the panic there.

As painstakingly as he had entered, Loki withdrew, his gaze intent on Clint's perspiring face. Regaining control of his body, Clint sucked in air, panting to slow his racing heart and force his mind to sharpen, but to no avail. Each time his abdomen was penetrated, breathing became a struggle.

With a snap of his hips, Loki drove in again and again, gutpunching Clint as he rutted against him. Clutching greedily at the curving lines of his shoulders, he anchored himself there to get the best purchase. Clint breathed through with the thrusting onslaught, but his throat constricted when, at the apex of a stroke, Loki said: "Have you fantasized about me doing this to you?"

Clint squeezed his eyes shut in shame and nodded, clenching his teeth on a cry when Loki pounded into him. "Only more? Much more? Much harder?" the god supplied.

Again, Clint nodded. Two more strokes to his insides.

Loki withdrew entirely. "Do I disappoint you, my hawk?"

Clint shook his head, "no, sir."

"Call me, my lord," he rebuked.

"No, my lord, sir."

Loki resumed fucking his belly with a force so brutal, Clint didn't know if he would lose consciousness from pain or from lack of oxygen first. The pounding in his temples rose to a crescendo as Loki tore a blinding orgasm from his stomach as if it were physically rooted to his spine. At Clint's exhausted collapse, Loki's own release began to overtake him and he surged sinuously against the now limp form until he too foundered, sated and spent.

* * *

 _The next chapter is something completely different..._

 _which may be a good thing or a bad one, I suppose._

 _Review are greatly appreciated!_


	2. Chapter 2

Fluorescent lighting; distant beeping and murmurs; soft scuff of shoes on tile; sharp, acrid medical smells... _A hospital._

Throat sandpaper-rough; head full of fog and wool; extremities numb and stiff; the prick of an IV... _Surgical recovery._

Jasmine, honeysuckle and coffee; black and red; calm command and quiet concern; a soft caress... _Natasha._

A white coat and glasses; talking... _A doctor._

"The internal injuries are serious, but we closed up the bleeders. A few inches higher and broken ribs and punctured lungs would have been very possible. As long as the inflammation of the spleen subsides, we can discharge him tomorrow. He's going to have one heck of a bellyache until that swelling goes down. And that serosanguinous fluid will take some time to absorb"

Natasha stroked Clint's forehead and examined his swollen stomach and the bruises blooming under the bandages before smoothing the sheet over him again. "Thank you, doctor," she said to the physician as he made a final note on the chart and departed.

"You with me?" she asked, palm resting on Clint's cheek.

"Mmmmm..." Clint groaned, his lips cracking and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Here," she said, "ice chips. It's all you can have for now."

The ice only served to emphasize how dry his mouth was. His whole body felt numb and disconnected, but when he tried to raise his head, he felt like he'd been kicked in the balls, the gut and the throat all at once.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "You are at Kingsbrook. You were in a car accident. Blunt force trauma to your abdomen with internal hemorrhaging. You have been in surgery." She paused while he took that all in, "you shouldn't text and drive, you know."

As he blinked in confusion, she smiled, "I'm teasing. We both know you don't know how to text." He moaned again and wrinkled his brow at her irritably. He experimentally rubbed his rounded belly, finding the skin taut and tingling from the anesthetic and stiff patches padded with tape and gauze. Beneath that, he felt a sharp, deep pain and a pervasive ache.

Natasha pressed on to answer his unvoiced question, explaining, "Incisions to cauterize the bleeding vessels and drain the blood. CTs look good, no long term damage."

She slicked something on his dry lips and dabbed at his nose; the tissue came away specked with bright blood.

"The fuck...?" Clint finally managed, swiping at the Vaseline, now stained pink on his upper lip.

"Articulate as always. They just pulled your NG tube. Here." She handed him the tissue. He held it against his nose and sipped more ice chips. He vaguely remember the removal the nasogastric tube; although the memory was more like that of someone using a grappling hook to pull his stomach lining out through his nose.

He tried to move again and nausea rippled through him as the ice chips went down. Fuck, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck and like someone had parked Mjolnir on his belly.

A nurse bustled in, "How's your pain, Mr. Barton?"

"S'fine, as long as I don't move, or breathe. Or swallow."

"Gimme a number," she said, looking up from the computer.

Clint, very familiar with the hospital pain scale, supplied, "four."

Natasha crossed her arms and looked at him with reproach and the nurse drawled dubiously, "and when you move or breathe or swallow?"

"Six," Clint said stoically.

Sliding her hand under the sheet, Natasha gently nudged a patch of unbruised skin on his ticklish lower flank and he twitched, gasping at the unexpected movement.

"Nine," he ground out, glaring at her. She raised one eyebrow and shrugged her unrepentance.

"I'll get you more meds," the RN stated.

"No, thanks," he said, "I'm ok." He tried to smile charmingly; his pleasant, reassuring, _don't worry, I'm a professional_ smile. It looked more like a grimace of pain. The nurse bustled around and checked all his monitors and said, "call me when you change your mind, tough guy," and left to continue with her rounds.

He turned to his partner and croaked out, "So, what happened?"

"Some idiot ran a red, swerved to avoid a pedestrian and veered into thet path of a semi, which hit your car."

"...oh." He _had_ been hit by a truck. All his dramatic avenging, and he winds up here from a _fucking car crash?_

Natasha knew he hated the feeling of being disconnected from his body by drugs, but she opined, "You should take the meds, Clint. You took a pretty bad hit."

"Apparently," he indicated his stomach. "Looks like I've got a bowling ball here. Feels like it, too," he added uncomfortably, shifting as if he could dislodge the pressure in his gut but ceased when that only hurt more.

"You were crushed against the steering wheel. Almost bled out." She folded back the sheet to expose his pummeled midsection. She indicated the darkest line of bruising, a true black and blue band like a prize fighter's belt slashed across his waist. "It took three EMTs to cut you out."

"Cut... My car?"

"Totaled. Sorry."

"Aw...car," he said quietly. He huffed a resigned sigh of regret for the poor vintage Challenger and then groaned at the stab of pain and clutched his stomach and fell back, exhausted.

She stood up to call the nurse back.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. You look tired. Lay down with me." He failed to hide his wince as he made a space for her, trying to make the narrow bed with the metal rails look as inviting as possible. She stretched her back, kicked her shoes under the bed and joined him. After a few moments of negotiating tubes, limbs and wires, she lay with her head pillowed on his shoulder and her arm positioned awkwardly to avoid his injuries. She sighed at the unexpected comfort despite the situation. "Have you been here all night with me?" he asked, "Did you sleep at all?"

"I slept a little in the chair. I had the weirdest dream," she confessed, exhaustion drawing her down. It felt so damn good to be horizontal, pressed close to him and sharing warmth.

"Oh yeah? What about?" he asked, taking her hand in his. He was faced with the same conundrum: where wasn't there an incision, a bruise or a sensor? He found a relatively clear part of his chest to rest their entwined fingers.

She instantly regretted the sleepy comment and squeezed her thighs together as the disturbing, erotic images flashed through her mind and flooded her with warm longing. Had she really had a wet dream about the Asgardian fucking her partner's belly button? It sounded so ridiculous when she put it like that, yet she flushed at the thought of Clint's soft, breathy moans, the way the powerful scepter compressed his stomach, his rigid cock, the cords of his muscles and curving lines of his body laid bare, the moment the god breached his navel... What the fuck was wrong with her?

When he had first told her about Loki's assault, the idea of reenacting any part of his humiliation seemed wrong and she had worried that she was going to make it worse. But as Clint had opened to her, laying out all his vulnerability and pain, trusting her finally, she gladly would have done almost anything he asked.

After that first awkward time in the corridor, she found she enjoyed this new kink of his. She had quickly learned to relish the exchange of power when he offered himself to her, loved the unique sensation of sinking into his unresisting belly and of riding his hard cock while crushing his stomach. This wasn't the first time a blatantly transgressive fantasy troubled and excited her, but one had never before intersected with the abuse Clint suffered.

"Mind if I put on the TV?" he asked, as the silence lengthened. He switched on the TV with the clunky remote and began flipping channels.

She hid her flushed cheeks against the crook of his neck and hoped he'd get distracted.

"Hey, TTN has a _Dog Cops_ marathon on."

 _Ok, that ought to do it_ , she thought as he became absorbed in the show.

"So, I don't get to hear about your kinky sex dream?" he enquired at the first commercial break, stroking her hair.

 _Or not._ "How do you know it was a sex dream?" she asked sleepily.

" _Kinky_ sex dream," he corrected. "I can always hope." He tried to shrug and winced. "Fuck. I really do hurt. Where's Loki when you need him, right?"

Only concern for his stitches kept her from jolting upright. "What?"

Clint immediately looked uncomfortable, "Loki, he... I think he had some healing power, at least when I was under his control. When he...uh, hurt me, he was able to heal me when my stomach was...Yeah."

She kissed the back of his hand and replaced it gingerly over his heart as he trailed off. After that first confession, he rarely talked about the exact events while Loki had him under mind control and had never mentioned that Loki had injured him to that extent. She decided to consider the real implications of that some other time. "If he hurt you so much, why do you want me to...?"

He remembered not to shrug. "It's hot when you do it. It feels amazing. And you are so damn good at it. Sometimes it feels like you are massaging my dick from the inside. I don't know how you do it."

Natasha noticed the numbers on his BP monitor start to climb slowly. "Ok, down, boy. You are going to set off these alarms."

"I think I will take those meds," he decided and hit the call button.

After the nurse returned and administered him a notable dose of Demerol, Natasha sighed sleepily against his chest when the tension ebbed from him as the meds blunted his discomfort.

"Sweet dreams, Nat," he said, his speech noticeably slurred, "sweet, sweet, kinky dreams...They're about me, right?"

She smiled guiltily and decided that if she fell back to sleep and revisited her exhilaratingly disturbing fantasy, she wouldn't regret it as much as staying awake and watching TTN all day. The reality might have been terrible, but what was a few dirty little thoughts, eh? And it wasn't like she ever had to _tell_ him about it. Even when the dreams _were_ about him.

"Watch your stupid K-9 cops, Barton."

Clint kissed the top of her head and said, "Don't drool on me, ok, Romanoff?"

* * *

 _That's all for now. Reviews and comments make my day._


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